Clint's Day Off
by Randomite
Summary: Clint was thoroughly enjoying his day off, a chance to do what he wanted undisturbed for a change. Until he realised that someone else had had a similar idea...with very different results!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N I own up. Cardinal sin of fanfiction writing: Guilty as charged. I've started another story.**

**This is a relatively short and simple idea that won't lie down and go away so I decided to deal with it. Key thing with this is I wanted to play with a slightly different structure rather than a purely chronological one so please pay attention to the time stamps on each chapter, hopefully it'll all make sense.  
**

* * *

**Summary: Clint was thoroughly enjoying his day off, a chance to do what he wanted undisturbed for a change. Until he realised that someone else had had a similar idea...with very different results!**

**Pairings: None**

**Rating: "T" for a few slightly gruesome moments. **

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Tuesday, 18th September 2012**

**7.18pm**

Clint rode the elevator up to the communal floor of the newly-renamed Avengers Tower, satisfied with his day and hungry in more or less equal measures. He'd been happily free of disturbances while he'd worked his way through the array of prototype arrows Stark had left him to test: He'd experimented with them in a variety of simulations adding the one thing that no virtual testing could ever truly add, the randomness of the human factor, and was satisfied that the thorough feedback he'd given on each idea would see him with a whole new arsenal of options in the field. So absorbed had he been in the testing, he'd barely stopped all day; taking only a few moments to ingest a couple of energy bars, a fact his stomach was now strongly protesting.

Arriving at his destination, he was struck by the almost eerie silence: It was rare for so few of them to be in residence. He smiled as he wondered how Bruce and Natasha were getting on at the "beardy-wierdy" conference; he could almost feel the smack he would have got from Nat if he'd used that phrase around her. In truth, he was kind of happy for the fact that Bruce had got the chance to go to the four day seminar on alternative therapies; it had taken some convincing, he'd been a little nervous about the idea. But a convincing false identity and Stark's reassurance that, unless the Hulk got set off by the presence of joss sticks and kaftans he may as well go and enjoy the break, had pushed him to sign up.

Natasha's volunteering to accompany him posing as his 'assistant' had been more of a surprise, but it made sense to have someone around just in case anyone got wind of who he really was; not to mention that, in their line of work, real breaks were few and far between and there was no doubt that a few days away on a low-level mission where the most stressful thing she might have to deal with was finding out how many times she could actually face eating bean curd would probably count as a break.

Tony had been summarily ordered to attend a meeting in Tokyo. He'd gone reluctantly (that was actually an understatement, Clint distinctly remembered a full-scale tantrum and some rather wince-inducing threats from Pepper definitely formed a good part of the discussion) but he'd eventually given in: He wasn't expected back until late tomorrow.

Thor….well he was off somewhere doing….well…whatever it was he did when he wasn't consuming most of the food in the Tower.

Clint stopped at the huge wall of glass that accented the main living area, aware for the first time just how much the weather had closed in: The storm was making its way to the city from the north, in the distance he could see lightning and the first droplets of rain were starting to run down the windows.

"Nice show…..d'you think it's Thunderpant's work?" Clint murmured to…..nobody.

Perplexed at the realisation, he looked around him before heading to the kitchen, anticipating the familiar smell of cooking that was conspicuous by its absence. He guessed Steve must be in his own apartment; perhaps he hadn't felt like cooking for them both tonight. Clint felt a little guilty at his abruptness (okay…rudeness) that morning….so what? He'd just been a bit preoccupied with his desire to spend his precious day off testing his new arrows, that was all.

Figuring he'd make it up to the soldier by ordering takeout and suggesting a movie or something he inquired:

"Jarvis, give Steve a shout for me."

"Captain Rogers is not currently in the building, sir."

"Did he tell you to say that? Is he actually sulking with me?" Clint had left the kitchen and stood looking at the now torrential rain oozing down the glass in rivulets….yeah, really likely Captain Sensible was out in this….

"There is no inaccuracy in my statement, sir. When I say 'Captain Rogers is not currently within the building' it is a statement of fact." Jarvis' tone was cold and had he been human could have been said to hold a hint of…..peevishness…?

"Well? Did he say where he was going?"

"The Captain indicated that he intended to do some sketching since he was, apparently, surplus to requirements today." Jarvis' tone was loaded with what Clint knew was deliberate disapprobation. "He left the Tower at 9.34am this morning, riding the Indian 741. He said that he needed to run the engine in following its recent rebuild. He did not express a specific destination."

"That old thing….?"

Clint thought back to all the arguments when Steve had taken the plunge into online auctions and purchased the World War II bike being sold by a European collector who'd abandoned his erstwhile plans to restore it. Tony had pulled holes in its utilitarian design and decried the lights as "as much use as a pen-light", but it had been obvious he'd been fascinated by the ingenuity shown by its designers given the time in which they were working.

As a project, even now, it was only partially-completed: The bike, Clint considered, still outwardly looked like it was on a one-way trip to the scrapheap. But the two men had spent a not inconsiderable amount of time working on the engine – Tony had enthused at its low compression ratio and had gleefully declared would run on pretty much anything, a fact he then proceeded to test with malt whisky and (and didn't the garage smell _interesting_ for a good while after that!); the brakes, little more than a couple of classroom erasers with a spring (Tony's description) had experienced something of an overhaul to actually be functional and practical for use in modern traffic ("…not gonna get too many German snipers firing at you out there Cap, just a load of Mom's driving SUVs that are too big for them") and the rebuild had proved, so far, to do something nothing else had managed: Provide a real bonding opportunity for the two men.

It had become a regular thing to find the two of them playing with the bike, Tony enjoying the visceral, "real" engineering that came with working on something purely mechanical while Steve, fully at ease with the level of technology, was able to give a real insight into the reasoning behind much of the design. A good deal of the time they'd spent on it seemed to consist of drinking beers and swapping stories and, whilst mechanically the bike was roadworthy and safe, Clint strongly suspected part of the reason the bike remained untouched cosmetically was that neither of them really wanted the restoration to be finished.

Clint checked his phone. Maybe Steve had just broken down somewhere? Surely he'd call him if that was the case? He was irrationally disappointed to see there were no missed calls – he wasn't really thinking that he wouldn't have heard it ring, was he? Rapidly dialling Steve's number he joked:

"Better tell him it's time to stop laying his jacket over puddles for the _dames_; they can get wet like the rest of us." Clint's chuckle at his own wit belied a gnawing sense of concern exacerbated by a bland voice curtly telling him they were unable to connect him to that number "….._please try later_."

"Check his phone for me, will you Jarvis?" He asked, trying (and failing) to keep the tone of worry out of his voice.

"I am unable to connect to the Captain's phone, sir. It appears to be non-functional. The tracking chip Mr Stark installed is also apparently disabled."

"Thought Tony said he'd made this one unbreakable? He's gonna be pissed when he finds out…any other suggestions?"

"Mr Stark equipped all of the Avengers' phones with a self-contained low-power beacon that was built to be both indestructible and undetectable without the specific search algorithm. However, due to lack of power, its range is limited. I have initiated the search program but it will take some time given we do not know where the Captain was heading." Jarvis sounded almost reproachful.

A tense, brittle silence pervaded the scene. Clint was at a loss as to what to do. After all, the guy was Captain America….damn near immortal. He was probably making his way home with that wryly rueful grin on his face….still didn't explain the fate of the phone. The archer guiltily wished he'd taken just a bit of interest that morning; made an inquiry about Steve's plans for the day; got an idea of where he was thinking of going….a starting point to look for him…

Perhaps he'd been taken by some unidentified threat? SHIELD Intelligence hadn't forwarded any warnings (but then, according to Tony, 'SHIELD Intelligence' was a perfect example of an oxymoron).

Clint made his way to the kitchen; the fact he was really hungry was the only thing he knew with any certainty at the moment. There was bound to be a rational, and probably quite funny, explanation for all this. He grinned at the humorous image of Steve hiding, terrified of a group of young women (the only thing Clint had ever seen genuinely scare their _fearless_ leader).

"Jarvis….any progress with finding the beacon?"

"Not at present, sir. Search continuing."

Clint was feeling increasingly edgy. Natasha would kill him if anything happened to Steve…..hell, Pepper probably would: Both women looked on the gentle, sweet, man out of time with the fondness of big sisters. Nat's parting words to her partner had been along the lines of 'keep an eye on him'; and, even though Steve had left the Tower of his own volition, Clint was pretty sure she'd find some way to make him the responsible party.

"Better come home soon Cap, you don't want my death on your conscience, do you?" He murmured to himself as he stood eating the sandwich he'd made and looking out over the cityscape from the kitchen window. He seemed to recall the storm had been forecast for much later, the early onset of the bad weather had probably just caught Steve out…most likely he was sheltering somewhere. After all, he couldn't have got all that far, the bike wasn't exactly fast. He checked the time dispiritedly: He'd been gone almost eleven hours; that was more than enough time to make it a significant search radius, especially when you had no idea which way he'd headed….

"Sir! I have located the beacon." Jarvis' clipped tones cut through his train of thought.

"Go ahead."

Jarvis broadcast a grainy video image onto the large screen on the kitchen wall; the GPS marker indicating it was some 65 miles to the north west of the City. The image was permeated by the grey-green tones Clint automatically associated with night-vision cameras but it took him a moment to realise the particular blurriness of the picture was largely due to the continuing downpour taking place at the location under observation.

"The footage is currently being filmed by a Police helicopter," Jarvis informed. "It appears the emergency services have been called to an incident upstate involving two vehicles."

Clint squinted at the screen. He could make out the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles which had arrived at the scene; could see firefighters trying to release someone from a damaged truck….but he couldn't make out another car. As if sensing his confusion, Jarvis homed in on one area of the screen where several men in black jackets were erecting what looked like a temporary shelter. At the top of the area of focus, he could see the distinct outline of….the wheel of a motorcycle.

"Come on Jarvis, let's not jump to conclusions." Clint said as much to calm himself as anything. "Motorcycles are accidents waiting to happen….could be anyone."

"Sir…" Jarvis was particularly solemn, "…this is the current location of the beacon installed in Captain Roger's phone."

"So he saw an accident and stopped to help out. That's just typical….no thought to letting me know…making me worry…."

"Furthermore," Jarvis interrupted his ramble, "I have just received a call from the Police. The license for that particular motorcycle is registered to this address."

"….and the condition of the rider?" Clint could barely believe he was asking the question, the scene he was watching spoke volumes; the paramedics weren't even bothering to approach the vicinity of the hastily sited tent...

"The accident appears to have been a fatal one for the motorcyclist, sir."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all so much for the reviews and follows: All very much appreciated. **

**For those who are interested, I haven't abandoned "Walk a Mile" I've just been suffering from knowing where I want to go but not being able to figure out how to satisfactorily get there with that fic so that, and the fact this one was just begging to be written, means I'm giving myself a little break from it; I still fully intend to finish it.**

**Disclaimer: Guess I should have put this at the start but, seriously, this is a site called fanfiction...I would have thought it's obvious I don't own any of the recognisable characters!**

**Anyhow, hope you enjoy the next update.**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**Tuesday, 18th September 2012**

**8.27pm**

Clint's legs really didn't want to continue supporting him as the realisation set in. He sat down sharply on the nearest kitchen chair, discarding the remnants of his sandwich on the table and wholly unsure whether he'd manage to hold on to what he'd already ingested.

It was impossible. They fought super-villains and aliens on an almost weekly basis. How could something as innocuous as a traffic accident kill Captain America? His mind reeled, unsure what he should do; he'd become accustomed to having the team around him, not needing to be the one who made decisions….

"Sir, if I may?" Jarvis interrupted his thoughts. "I would beg to suggest that all we know at the moment is pure supposition. However, should those suspicions prove correct, it would probably be unwise to allow the _deceased_ to be transported to a civillian mortuary."

At this Clint started to pull himself together, Jarvis was right; the circumstantial evidence was damning but not conclusive. Time to act like a trained SHIELD agent: Like an Avenger.

"Jarvis….what did you tell the Police?"

"That, on occasion, some of the vehicles registered to the Tower may be borrowed by employees or other acquaintances and that I would ensure Ms Potts contacted them on the matter on her return from Tokyo."

"Good thinking, Jarvis…..no need to say anything to Tony yet, eh?"

"I would concur with that statement. Sir is over 12 hours away at present; it would be prudent to wait until the facts are established."

Glancing over at the patchy video feed once more, Clint considered his options: Jarvis was right, Tony was too far away to do anything at the moment; telling Bruce wasn't an option (nor Natasha for that matter, her reaction would probably make Hulk look cute and cuddly); Thor…well….Clint wasn't even sure how to contact him if he wanted to and he was far from sure how he'd be able to help if he did.

It was his responsibility to handle this himself for now.

Looking at his phone with a mix of trepidation, grief and horror that he was going to have to verbalise the situation, he steeled himself to what he had to do. He picked up his phone and clicked on the icon for the direct, encrypted connection to the last person he really wanted to talk to right now: Nick Fury.

Had his thoughts not been elsewhere, he'd have congratulated himself on keeping his composure quite admirably throughout the conversation. He reported the bare facts as they were known at that point and only realised how rattled the impassive man before him actually was when the call ended abruptly with a command for him to report to the helicarrier immediately and not the interrogation and remonstration he was fully expecting.

Within moments, he started receiving updates on SHIELD's activity; he'd obviously been copied in on the very small "need-to-know" group for this operation. Had the situation been different, he might have marvelled at the level of authority it took to get the control of an investigation into a 'local' incident, on the surface so seemingly trivial, so quickly….but that bypassed him completely on this occasion as he numbly gathered a few essentials, including his bow, and prepared for his pickup flight that he was notified would collect him from the Tower's roof in 6 minutes.

By the time he stood, chilled and increasingly wet, in the unseasonably cool night air, he'd received notice that a forensic 'recovery' team was on its way to the site of the accident. The cover was, apparently, that it was suspected the fatality was a member of an organisation under investigation at high level – best they could come up with, Clint figured, at such short notice but probably good enough for the local law enforcement who probably rarely had to deal with anything more complex than a lost cat. Permission had been given to remove the injured driver of the vehicle to hospital where they were to be kept under guard but, under no circumstances, to be interviewed until SHIELD agents arrived to do so. Clint noted, with yet another churn of his already beleaguered stomach, the instruction that the _body_ be untouched and for all local services to surrender any and all pictures taken and vacate the scene leaving only a perimeter guard until relieved.

The flight time to rendezvous with the helicarrier was a tortuously long 35 minutes. Clint focussed on the near constant updates he was receiving through his phone and tuned out (read ignored) the cheery young SHIELD pilot's attempts at conversation until the man mercifully shut up. It was clear that any indication as to the possible identity of the body currently being retrieved was being completely quashed; a mixed blessing, Clint realised, as he read the entirely dispassionate initial observations of the team despatched to examine the scene.

They reported that, due to the poor light and wet conditions, only the most cursory of site investigations could be completed at this time and that, as soon as photography of the site was completed, the body and bike would be airlifted back to the helicarrier for full examination; the location would remain cordoned off until a full forensic search for any remaining evidence could be undertaken.

Clint had been in battles and involved with covert operations for much of his adult life. He'd regularly seen things that would try the intestinal fortitude of most men but the report that stated: "_The body is charred beyond any possibility of identification on-site. The fireball pursuant to the ignition of fuel having been of sufficient temperature to melt the victim's crash helmet to the cranium_…" left Clint with a mental image and overwhelming nausea that he could have happily have lived his entire life without experiencing.

It was with no small measure of relief that Clint deplaned, only to come face-to-face with Agent Hill, her features set in their default stoic expression aside from a slight creasing around her eyes, hinting at some degree of strain in retaining her composure that only those most familiar with dealing with her would detect. If any of the assorted agents and engineers around the landing bay were, in any way, curious as to why Fury's second-in-command was there to meet what seemed like a routine arrival they wisely decided to keep it to themselves: Hill had that affect on people.

Clint followed her, easily falling into step alongside, although slightly behind her, as she led him through the grey corridors to an isolated level accessible to only those with the highest clearance. She gave him no indication as to what was expected as she left him in the sparsely, but not accommodating, room: None was needed, he had the same training she had. The task was clear, trawl through the information as it was forthcoming whilst they awaited formal identification of the body; establish whether there was anything anomalous in the details; look for anything that marked this as a professional 'hit'…..Clint knew the drill, he also knew the underlying implication…he wouldn't be the only one doing this. Clint understood and, much as he resented it, could appreciate that lingering suspicions remained after his possession by Loki…and, the fact was, despite everything he knew that argued the contrary, he couldn't help but feel responsible, at least in part, for the situation.

Clint groaned, running his fingers through his short hair in frustration and despair. Here he was trying to root through reports, ruthless in their objectivity, knowing that the subject was….someone who'd trusted him when everyone else regarded him with doubt; someone for whom the safe return of all his team only ever took second place to the safety of those less-able to defend themselves; someone he wished he'd been able to call a friend but had never felt himself worthy of the name….and now it was too late.

He read, barely absorbing the contents of the reports as they flashed across the screen of his tablet: Unable, or unwilling, to start analysis of the body whilst in transit, the team had focussed on the bike…he scanned the text; fire damage, model, reasoning behind the leak of gas that had, ultimately, led to the fire that had….WHAT?! His eyes roved back up several lines to the briefest mention that the front end of the bike had been the least damaged by the fireball and that there were no keys in the ignition but the mechanism showed damage of a type consistent with being forced….what the hell?

He remembered Tony and Steve waxing lyrical about how beautifully that engine sparked into life now they'd replaced the old, worn, ignition mechanism with an new but original part sourced from a dealer….how it was just the worn barrel that had been causing the starting problem….the thought that Steve, who loved that bike, would have _vandalised_ any part of it…

If the bike had broken down or he'd lost the keys….Steve would have carried it rather than damaged it in any way….which meant that wasn't him riding it…..possibly….maybe…

It was a slim hope at best, Clint considered. It most certainly didn't answer the question as to where the 'man with the plan' was if he wasn't the rider: A fit and well Steve Rogers would have easily made it to somewhere with a phone by now, if not all the way home….not to mention that the weight of evidence still pointed to the body being him. But it was the first indication that something other than the obvious was amiss here and, for now, Clint was prepared to take anything he could get.

An abrupt tone from his phone indicated that there was a new update: The transport carrying everything recovered from the scene had arrived and the body was being transferred to a secure section of Medical. Gathering himself as best he could, Clint headed for the level indicated and was ushered, unceremoniously, into a side room by a large member of Security who regarded his ID (despite having known him personally for at least 2 years) with all the seriousness of someone who'd been told his job was on the line if he didn't ensure no access except for cleared personnel.

The small room was an observation area with almost the whole of one wall a clear divide allowing the assembled few (namely Clint, Fury and Hill) to watch the examination. Speakers were mounted to the sides of the observation pane so they could hear everything said in the room; from the general chit-chat that could already be heard it was clear that the white-coated men about to undertake the autopsy had absolutely no idea who this body was supposed to be: Their blackly humorous remarks as they wheeled in the body bag and its contents had Clint clenching his fists involuntarily even though he realised that complete objectivity was necessary to get the most accurate report….but even so.

When the body bag was unzipped, Clint almost threw up on the spot: The report from the scene hadn't exaggerated, the body was little more than cinder. He allowed the initial observations he could hear to wash over him, he knew this was all procedure but he really didn't need to hear someone verbalise what he could easily observe for himself. He heard something about 'extensive burns', 'tissue damage', that the victim was male but it was impossible at this point to determine age, ethnicity…..the voice droned on and on….something about the crash helmet making accurate measurement of the body's height impossible until removed…..height estimated based on femur measurement to be a little under 6 foot….Clint's head shot up as his tired mind registered this statement:

"Steve's taller than that…" he breathed, barely daring to say it; it was only an estimate after all and Steve's actual height would probably fall, just about, into the margin of error…but too late nonetheless, that little well of hope that had sprung into life earlier, unbidden, bubbled just a little bit stronger. Glancing across the area he noted that Hill and Fury were paying just a little bit keener attention too now, they'd registered that fact as well. It was barely discernible but they all moved marginally closer to the viewing panel.

The voice from the autopsy room droned on, completely unaware of the reactions he was eliciting, unable to see through the glass from his side of proceedings. Clint's new-found hope took a knock at the mention that the victim, from the charred fragments of clothing remaining, appeared to have been wearing a jacket, possibly leather; a sample was sent for analysis….they also recovered the remnants of a phone, all but melted to the body, which was similarly despatched to recover any salvageable information from it ("_no need_" thought Clint, he already knew who it belonged to).

He allowed his eyes to run along the length of the remains with as much neutrality as he could muster; there were enough anomalies to imply doubt but not enough to say whether it was Steve or not….and then he saw something, something that jolted his mind fully into the camp of absolute certainty.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry, I know I was mean with the end of the last chapter - this should put your minds at rest to some extent. This was originally written as a prologue for this story, hence the time stamp on it, but I decided it worked better as a kind of flashback chapter.**

**Once again, thanks for all the reviews, follows and favourites. **

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Tuesday, 18th September 2012**

**12.41pm**

The young man moved as fast as he was able to, cursing under his increasingly ragged breaths at the run of luck he'd encountered in a day that had gone rapidly from bad to worse.

A simple enough job, he'd thought. The elderly woman, recently widowed and living modestly but comfortably in, what was generally regarded as, a "nice" neighbourhood, was casual about her security having lived there for so many years and certainly well-heeled enough to make a quick break-in more than worth his while…..or so he'd thought: She'd come back earlier than expected, forcing him to take the regrettable (for his likely prison sentence if he was caught rather than his conscience) action of pushing her over roughly and making a break for it with the few, rather paltry valuables he'd managed to locate – having been unsuccessful in uncovering the safe he was sure was there somewhere….those kind of people always had safes, didn't they? A moot point right now he reasoned.

OK, so his anticipated 'lucrative little job' had backfired big time.

In his panic, he'd taken advantage of her shock and distress to steal her car keys and head out of town as quickly as possible. Realising that he'd graduated from the kind of minor break-ins that tended to go on "unsolved" and insurance pay-out lists rather than get him featured on America's Most Wanted to a one-man crime spree in the space of the last few hours, his fevered mind fought to rationalise the situation.

The car….only a matter of time before she raised the alarm, if she hadn't already: The car had put some distance between him and the crime scene, now it was time to put some distance between him and the car.

Banking on the alarm not having been raised too widely yet, he pulled in to a small roadside diner; the kind that just survived on passing road traffic rather than had regulars who'd particularly notice a stranger. Parking carefully in a spot as obscured, both from the entrance and the diner's patrons, as possible, he took a few moments to assess the situation: He still had his trusty, and slightly modified for personal requirements, multiple-use knife nestled in the pocket of his jeans, the other tools of his trade had been abandoned at the house but they were clean, as petty thieves went he was pretty slick (in his own opinion); no prints, nothing to distinguish him or anything he had with him, he slipped in and out of his targets' homes unnoticed and unremarked – he was going to have to make sure that applied more than ever now.

The hoodie, almost certainly the only thing the old lady would have had time to notice, would have to go though….may as well leave it here, he and the car had come to the end of their time together and the hoodie was of a common, chain-store type which wouldn't give any clues to his identity. Besides, the day was quite warm and starting to veer towards humid and heavy as the storm he remembered hearing on the forecast for the early evening began to build; the lack of a warmer garment wouldn't provoke any curiosity.

Stripping the superfluous garment and tossing it onto the passenger seat with deliberate casualness, he grabbed the small backpack containing the jewellery and cash he'd managed to snatch and stepped out of the car, his thin gloves still in place – no prints. He locked the car, to do otherwise ran the risk of looking suspicious and, having parked so he could alight on the far side of the car from the diner entrance, shielded from passing cars by an opportunely parked truck, he stood a moment with his back to anyone who might be watching and carefully slid the gloves from his hands, keeping the car key carefully wrapped in one of them, and into his pocket while he made a quick survey of his surroundings.

Looked like his legendary luck had only taken a short-term sabbatical, he considered, as he spied what he'd been hoping to see; a washroom annexe to the main building. He was grateful that this kind of place likely didn't make enough money to invest in anything more luxurious for its customers and, whilst getting over there meant crossing the parking area in front of the diner, he doubted he would have been the first person to pull up here and head purposefully in that particular direction at this establishment – it wasn't like motorists were spoilt for choice on this lonely back road.

He moved across the compound with some (though not excessive) speed, rounded the side of the building and then, heartened by the lack of windows to the side of the building, slipped past the outhouse, finding himself beyond the boundaries of the premises and into the woods behind it in a matter of moments. Stopping only briefly to dispose of the (fingerprint free) car key in some bushes, he set up a brisk pace through the woodland. He took care to avoid moving in an obvious straight line whilst keeping a watchful eye out for signs of a dwelling – it wouldn't do to spend too long travelling on foot, he couldn't be sure how long it would be before someone realised that the car had, in fact, been abandoned. Some faster mode of transport was becoming an urgent requirement.

He quelled his general distaste for the 'great outdoors' as he made his way steadily through the woods, travelling in a general north-westerly direction for at least a couple of hours before he came across what looked to be a regularly used track. Travelling parallel to it, he eventually came across a clearing accommodating a simple and slightly run-down cabin alongside various outbuildings. He was a little surprised, having expected one of the more luxurious homes he generally associated with the area, but, conversely, those types of homes tended to have considerably better security than this appeared to have and the fact remained that there was no way (in his opinion) that anyone living out here, in such an isolated location, would leave themselves reliant on solely one vehicle.

He scouted around the property, it appeared deserted. Slipping his gloves back on, the simple latch-style lock on the main door was the work of mere moments for him to pick with his trusty knife. A cursory glance around the simply (and slightly shabbily) furnished property told him there was little here worth stealing even if that were his objective at the moment. Taking the opportunity instead to grab himself a little food and take several long gulps of water, enough to sustain himself but not enough to draw attention to his visit, he exited the dwelling as carefully as he'd entered leaving no sign he was ever there, flipping the latch back on the lock with the ease of years of practice.

The next was a quick search of the outbuildings for anything of use in his current predicament. Typical for the type of life the residents of this place must lead, most of the tools and equipment he uncovered were far too unwieldy and cumbersome to be of any use to him at the moment but a small, slightly rusted and neglected screwdriver – nestled in a corner under a workbench and unlikely to be missed anytime soon – found its way into his backpack along with the meagre supplies he'd wrested from the kitchen.

Finally, he made his way into the largest of the buildings. There was a space which clearly regularly housed a truck of some kind, judging by the size of the tyre tracks in the dusty floor and an older van that would be perfect for achieving his current goal….except, he realised almost immediately, for the fact it was up on stands, one wheel missing completely. As he contemplated yet another twist in his luck for the day, it got worse: The unmistakeable sounds of another vehicle were heard, drawing closer by the second.

Not stopping to think further, he located the small back door to the building and, once again grateful for the trusting nature of the locals, flipped up the latch and exited, heading for the perimeter as quickly as his necessary silence allowed. However, as he neared the safety of the woods once more, fate dealt him yet another blow: The wind that was starting to build ahead of the oncoming storm delivered a gust that sent the unfastened door hammering against its frame.

He was vaguely aware of shouts and recriminations; protestations that the door was always kept locked as he vaulted the outer fence his instinct to remain undetected outweighing all other considerations at this time. Landing awkwardly on his ankle he couldn't suppress the yelp of pain that was enough to provoke the word "shotgun" and he didn't dally longer than that.

His ankle was painful but thankfully bore his weight. He scrambled on hoping that they'd merely do a search of the perimeter and give up…but not prepared to wait and see. He laboured on through the increasingly dense woodland, noticing the increasing strain on his lungs and legs as he forced himself to carry on, aware of the incline he was now scaling, determined to get across the ridge he could see in the distance before the light, already starting to fade as the clouds began to darken, dimmed too badly….and it was then that Lady Luck finally decided he was due some good fortune.

In a small clearing, at the base of a particularly steep part of the trail up towards the summit, was a motorbike. He regarded it curiously from his cover within the trees, glancing furtively up the slope for any sign of its owner…..no-one to be seen. The bike was old; the kind collectors called "a classic", the type everyone else called "junk"….but to the exhausted fugitive it might just have been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen at that particular moment.

The bike was far from perfect, although it had obviously got there under its own power; it actually looked like a partially completed restoration project. The faded greeny/blue paintwork was scratched and there were patches of red oxide where rust had obviously been removed and treated. Slung casually over the seat was a leather jacket and a crash helmet on top of that: Clearly its owner wasn't expecting anyone to even pass by, much less an experienced thief…..not that it would need any particular skill to start it, he couldn't help but smirk at the ease with which such an old ignition system could be bypassed.

Slipping the backpack from his shoulder, he removed the small screwdriver and cautiously approached his objective. Slipping into the jacket (it was getting cooler after all and he considered his needs outweighed anyone else's) before re-siting his backpack, he picked up the crash helmet and donned that as well. He straddled the bike and carefully eased the stand up, steadying the bike as best he could with his still painfully twisted ankle just about providing enough support, before pushing the screwdriver into the ignition, feeling it nestle into the slot with a familiarity that made his heart soar….once he got this baby going he'd be able to make real headway, it would be a good while before the bike's owner could even raise an alarm and he'd be well on his way to freedom and a whole new identity by then.

He turned the handle of the screwdriver sharply and felt the machine roar into life beneath him. As he pulled away, he heard a muffled shout from somewhere further up the slope but he'd already accelerated away down the track. Once he was underway, he risked a glance back and saw some movement but his progress downwards and back towards civilisation wasn't going to be stopped by anyone on foot…..it was a short time afterwards that he heard the distinctive sound of a shotgun ring out….

Briefly, he wondered whether his pursuers had followed him this far….had they mistaken the bike's owner for him? "Better him than me…." he mused, airily as he realised, with some relief, that he'd finally found a road…of sorts…well, a dirt track really….but at least something that stood a chance of leading him back to civilisation. The sun was now low in the sky so he made sure to keep it on his left, as much as the track allowed, ensuring he was still heading north as much as possible. He revved the engine a little higher and was impressed by the power of the old bike as he raced along; whoever had tuned it up had done a good job….one that he was only too happy to take advantage of.

The first few large raindrops, the precursor to what promised to be quite some storm, splattered loudly and menacingly onto the visor of the helmet; the dry, dusty topsoil of the track started to form small globules of mud as he sped onwards, noting with relief when the track opened out onto a narrow, but mercifully, tarmac road. It seemed, within next to no time, the rain had developed into a torrential downpour; the road was becoming increasingly slick and the almost solid stream of water across the visor was making visibility difficult: Still he didn't slow down, he couldn't afford to.

He looked down to find the lights on the bike, the forward movement of his head clearing a little of the water from the visor leaving his vision only slightly distorted as he searched, and fiddled with the awkward, old-fashioned switch as his, now drenched, gloved hand made his task even more difficult. It was as he raised his head again on the approach to a bend that he briefly realised, firstly, that the light from the bike's headlamp was little more than a yellowy glow and, secondly, that there was an oncoming array of lights, refracted by the water, blinding him…..

….and then everything slowed down. He was dimly aware of the screeching of brakes….a sharp jolt…..of an excruciating pain in his leg…a sense of motion at a skewed angle…a sharp tug across his shoulders as the backpack's straps gave way relinquishing what little protection it had given to his back in the process…..a smattering of small bright lights?...sparks from metal scraping on tarmac? A smell of gas as the thin walls of the old bike's gas tank ruptured…

…..and his world ceased to be in an all-consuming ball of flame.


	4. Chapter 4

**At last, the answer to the question: What exactly did Clint see that convinced him?**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Wednesday, 19th September 2012**

**12.34am**

Clint couldn't resist the grin of relief that began to force its way onto his face as realisation began to set in.

"It's not him." He stated, remarkably evenly under the circumstances. Hill and Fury glanced across, perplexed at what had caused such conviction before their attention was snapped back towards the medical examination room by the sound of a grinder being fired up: The crash helmet was about to be removed.

There was squeal as the grinder began to cut through what was, in effect, a thick moulded-plastic coating to the skull of the body. Clint winced slightly at the sound but remained focussed on the source of his new-found optimism: The lower legs of the cadaver before them.

It really didn't require a degree in Physics, Clint reasoned, to realise that, as the fuel had caught fire, the heat and intensity of the blaze had been forced in the opposite direction to the one in which the bike was moving: Consequently, it was the upper legs, torso and head of the body that had been, pretty much, incinerated. The left lower leg and foot…well, there really wasn't much left of it; presumably that had been the one trapped under the bike. But the right leg, under the mud, scorching and impact damage….there was one small detail, so trivial it had been entirely overlooked up to this point.

The remains of an item of footwear continued to cling to the right foot of the body; not much of it, admittedly, but enough: The fragments of fabric and shreds of rubber could only be one thing, a lightweight canvas shoe of some kind…..the kind of shoe no amount of cajoling and teasing would ever get Steve to wear, devoted as he was to his sturdy leather boots. Even the idea that he would ever wear anything so flimsy and unreliable when riding his bike was so ludicrous as to be almost laughable.

As the grinder was turned off and the medics began removing the helmet one piece at a time, the sight of what was clearly dark brown hair on the scalp of whoever it was lying on that slab caused Clint's overwhelming relief to escape in a strange sound that was a cross between a strangled yelp and a nervous giggle. He looked up and found himself caught in the piercing glare of Fury's gaze.

"Is there some reason you're still here Agent Barton? Don't you have someone to find?"

"Yes sir!" Clint gladly vacated the room his relief dissipating almost immediately as the realisation set in that they still didn't know for certain that Steve was alive….they just knew he wasn't definitely dead.

He stood outside the room a moment, gathering his thoughts. Best case scenario: Steve was okay and just somehow prevented from getting to any kind of civilisation….by what? Injury? Capture? But still somewhere within the couple of thousand square miles search area indicated by the crash site…..or he was somewhere else entirely; if any super-villain had him they'd be crowing about it….loudly (Clint had no doubt)….or…..what? He sighed….needles and haystacks sprang to mind: He needed help.

Holding up his phone he checked the time; just past 1am locally so afternoon in Tokyo, Tony should be leaving shortly (if he hadn't had enough and left already). Clint quickly keyed in a text:

"_Call me as soon as you can speak securely."_

"_What's up?"_ Clint almost smiled at the speed with which the reply came, either Tony was very bored with proceedings and wanted a distraction or he'd actually finished with the business….the former seemed likely given the taut schedule Pepper tended to exact on business trips.

"_What part of secure confused you? Just call me when you can."_

"_We got a problem?" _

"_Yeh."_

"_Take off in 90 minutes. Call you then. Anything I can do now?"_

Clint paused to consider the question; actually there was something. Under any normal circumstances he'd hesitate to even think of asking, but these weren't normal circumstances and he needed all the help he could get:

"_Phone access to Jarvis?"_

There was a prolonged pause where Clint inwardly berated himself for even asking; friend, teammate, cohabitant at the Tower….whatever else he was, he was still a SHIELD agent first and foremost and Tony had plenty of reasons for keeping his most advanced technologies out of their hands, no matter how well they got along as individuals: No way was the genius going to give him mobile access to his AI without a significantly better explanation.

He knew it was possible, Tony regularly gave access to Steve (Clint wasn't sure but it might even be a permanent arrangement). At first he'd been mystified; the World's most advanced AI and a man from the 40s wasn't the most obvious combination. But then he'd realised that Steve's contract with SHIELD wasn't like his and Natasha's, it was more like a consultant's contract with him having complete discretion as to which missions he undertook; he was, if not wealthy, at least financially independent (thanks to his back-pay) and under no direct obligation to an organisation whose motives could, on occasion, be said to be _unclear_ at the very least.

Moreover, Steve and Jarvis had one major thing in common – they were both unique examples of specific technologies very many interested parties would like to get their hands on. It had taken a while, even for seasoned spies, to realise that, beneath Steve's outwardly innocent and cheerful demeanour, was a man who knew exactly the lengths some people were prepared to go to gain anything that could give them power over others….and that was precisely why Tony trusted him with his AI.

The phone buzzed, jarring him out of his reverie:

"_Is Steve OK?"_

Clint might have known the request would be the giveaway now he'd thought about it.

"_I don't know."_ He replied.

His phone was inert for a couple of minutes before an empty text message with an attachment arrived. Downloading the attachment, a small square was displayed on the screen with an instruction to place his thumb on the square and speak his name clearly: He did so.

"Good morning Mr Barton. Your identity has been verified and I am now available on this device for a maximum of 24 hours. You will be required to verify your identity by means of the thumbprint scan before any and all uses of this program. Please be aware that any attempt to copy, download or otherwise interfere with this program, including access by non-authorised persons, will cause this device to be rendered non-functional and all contained data to be destroyed irretrievably. How may I be of assistance?"

"We've got work to do Jarvis. It wasn't Steve on that bike."

"Indeed sir? That is most encouraging news."

"Yeah Jarvis….it is." Clint sighed as he made his way back to the isolated room on the helicarrier.

It didn't take long to have Jarvis' analysis parameters established: He began to collate and cross-reference all the SHIELD recovery team's observations alongside local police reports, local press, radio and social media from the last 18 hours or so, anything to try and reduce the search radius: With no idea how long or how far the thief had travelled on the bike, the Captain's location when it was stolen could be anywhere in a huge and heavily wooded area that would take a massive amount of time to search with anything approaching accuracy. There was also the consideration that, if he had been taken by hostile forces, there was no way that could have happened quietly; even in the back of beyond people would have noticed the kind of manpower and equipment that would have taken.

Jarvis had obligingly taken control of all the equipment within the room with a nonchalance (if an AI could be described as being in possession of such an attitude) that suggested if Tony ever decided to take over every bit of technology in the World all he'd have to do is instruct Jarvis, sit back and relax. As a result, Clint now had numerous 2D and 3D displays dotted around the walls showing everything from identified key timings to satellite and topographical displays of the region under scrutiny.

Clint perused the SHIELD report on the interview with the driver of the car involved in the accident: Local man, no political affiliations of any kind, genuinely distraught at the events of the evening, maintained that the bike had been speeding at ridiculous speed given the conditions and its poor lights….there was absolutely nothing to suggest he was anything other than someone in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As he laid the tablet down for a moment, it occurred to him that Tony must have left Tokyo by now….this was followed in short succession by the realisation that the billionaire would, undoubtedly, have made sure he had access to absolutely everything Jarvis had access to…..which meant Clint wasn't going to have to tell him what had happened…..

His phone buzzed loudly. Tentatively he prodded at the screen to answer the call…

"_What the hell are you playing at Barton?! I leave you for less than 48 hours and you lose the World's only super-soldier? What kind of an agent are you? What kind of a spy are you? The guy never goes out….."_

Yep….Clint wasn't going to need to tell him.

He let the genius rant on for a while longer, with occasional interruptions from an equally anxious Pepper; Clint was rather glad they had a long flight during which, hopefully, he could make some progress (likely to auger well for his longevity when they finally arrived back by the sound of it). He started to look over some of the initial notes Jarvis had started to compile and display – most of them wouldn't be relevant but no detail was too small to ignore at the moment – while he waited for the tirade to abate.

He felt his eyes being drawn to an odd little annotation Jarvis had highlighted about a call received by local police the previous day reporting a car abandoned at a local diner. He expanded it to view what appeared to be a direct transcript of the call (how Jarvis had come by it Clint wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know). It appeared the Police had yet to take any further action on the case yet due to their meagre resources already being stretched by…..well, no need to go there….

"…_.still there Barton?"_

"Yeah….er….take a look at this…."

Jarvis gave visual affirmation that Tony was looking at the same report Clint was.

"…_and….?"_

"The caller describes the driver of the car as 'tallish…maybe 5'10" to 6' with dark brown hair, wearing jeans and plain t-shirt'…"

"…_.this is relevant because…?"_

"Matches what we know about 'Mr Crisp' pretty much perfectly.

"If I may Sirs…" Jarvis intervened, "…I have taken the liberty of tracing the license for the vehicle in question: It appears it was reported stolen following an aborted break-in and assault reported north of the City yesterday morning."

"_So our bike thief…"_

"…knowing it's only a matter of time before the car becomes a liability…"

"…_abandons it in the middle of nowheresville…"_

"…and goes looking for alternative transport…."

The two men both simultaneously stared at the same map from thousands of miles apart. The distance in a straight line between the diner and the crash site was just a little over 35 miles: They had their search radius.

"_Clint…?"_ Pepper's soft tone interjected. _"It'll be first light in just a couple of hours. You can't start searching properly until then. Don't you think you should get some rest?"_

"I….can't…"

"_You'd rest whether you felt like it or not before any other mission." _ Pepper was relentless once she'd decided on something. _"Surely searching for Steve's at least as important. Tony and Jarvis can work on the search pattern in the meantime…."_

"_We can…? Argh.. yes….We can!"_ Clint didn't need to see what had happened there to surmise there was probably a stiletto involved.

"…_.and you'll be ready to go when you wake."_ Pepper continued calmly and sweetly.

"_Don't I need any rest?"_

"_You wouldn't even if I tied you to a bed."_

"_Why Ms Potts….Is that a proposition?"_

"Alright. I'll get some rest. Even if it's only so I don't have to listen to your domestic arrangements."

A brief, and possibly embarrassed (in Pepper's case), silence ensued.

"_We'll wake you at 4.45. Then you can go find him."_ Tony concluded the conversation.

Clint took a few moments to outline progress to Director Fury (a low-key operation would have to suffice, drawing any attention to the Captain's disappearance was too dangerous) before settling down on the small cot bed in the corner of the inhospitable room. Drawing on his years of practice he forced himself to clear his mind and get at least some sleep.

"Cap….next time I tell you to 'get lost', don't take me so damn seriously…" was his last waking thought as a fitful but restorative sleep claimed him.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Sorry for the delay in updating, I've been sidetracked by that remarkably tedious occupation called 'earning a living' for the last few days.**

**On the plus side, we finally get to catch up with everybody's favourite Captain - none of you really thought I'd kill him, did you? This chapter has actually been split into two because it was getting far too long and I really wanted to get an update done, hopefully there'll be another later in the week.**

**Once again, thanks so much for all the lovely reviews and follows for this story. I really appreciate the feedback and support.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**Wednesday, 19****th**** September 2012**

**3.37am**

Steve's first awareness was of what felt like a small electrical storm going on behind his eyes, followed shortly after by a not entirely dissimilar pain in his leg: He was cold, he was damp….very damp…. and he was very definitely uncomfortable. Well being uncomfortable, of itself, wasn't that much of a problem: He had been in the army; waking up in discomfort was more or less mandatory there. _"Getting soft Rogers…"_ he inwardly chastised himself.

The pain behind his eyes began to recede and gave him the opportunity to make a quick assessment: If he'd been captured, it was worth gathering as much information as possible while he was still thought unconscious.

Nothing to hear but a rustle of….leaves…and a trickling of water…woods; that was it…he'd been in the woods….and still was by the sounds of it. No sense of any restraints on his limbs, although there was some kind of a strap on his shoulder attached to an, as yet, unidentified lump under his upper back, but it didn't seem in any way restrictive.

Reasonably confident that, whatever predicament he was in, it was safe to open his eyes, he did so….and saw absolute blackness. It took a few moments until his eyes adjusted and he realised, as his blurry vision resolved somewhat, that (a distance from him on either side) there were tones within the blackness; the dark outline of trees against the muted grey hues of a cloudy night sky lightened only by a watery, obscured moonlight that seeped through where it could. The area immediately around him, however, remained shadowy and indistinct: It took him a few moments to realise that this was because he was in a deep trench of some kind, which explained why there were no trees directly above him.

Having established that his current location, whilst far from ideal, contained no immediate threats, he turned his attention to his physical condition.

His recall of prior events was a little fuzzy but he was reasonably certain that it hadn't actually been night-time the last he remembered which pointed to his having been unconscious for some time. In addition, the thundering headache that had beset him since he'd awoken indicated a head injury of some kind.

A tentative exploration by his hand in the vicinity of the most intense source of pain revealed what felt like an angular rock a bit bigger than a house brick nestled at the side of his skull, just above his right ear: Well that explained the headache and the vagueness of recall.

Steve was no stranger to concussions and knew the fact he was remembering anything at all was a good sign that everything would come back to him in due course. The feeling of sticky wetness under his fingers as he gingerly felt around the wound, carefully (and decidedly painfully) moving his head away from the rock to ascertain the damage, suggested the wound was still bleeding to some extent – a discovery that concerned him slightly and pointed to his super-healing abilities having been diverted to more pressing matters: The jolt of pain that radiated through his left leg at the small sideways movement he'd made indicated precisely where that priority may have been.

A small, experimental stretch of that leg told Steve that it wasn't broken, but the accompanying razor-sharp spasm of discomfort confirmed his suspicions: For the moment, however, he couldn't bring to mind how he acquired the injury.

Confident that any other physical damages were of the 'minor cut and bruise' variety, Steve inhaled sharply and cautiously edged himself up into a partial sitting position, propping himself on his forearms in preparation for the feeling of nausea he'd come to associate with the aftermath of a solid blow to the head: The familiar sensation passed after a few moments and allowed him to slip, what had occurred to him must be, the strap of his rucksack off his shoulder and down beside him.

Feeling around the bag in the dark, he worked out which way round it was and his fingers eventually located the side pocket; dexterity limited by cold, wet digits, he managed to slip open the fastening and retrieve the small penlight he always kept there.

The limited beam of the torch didn't travel too far before it was dissolved by the depths of the shadows, but it illuminated enough for him to see that he was, indeed, in what had probably once been the path of a fairly major tributary before the water had found an easier route to its destination. He lay near the bottom of the steeper side of the two embankments and, to his left, could see where he'd most likely impacted the mud, held together firmly by numerous roots, during his fall; something that had almost certainly aggravated his leg wound but seemed unlikely to have caused it.

Glistening on the nearby foliage as the beam of the torch struck the leaves informed him that there had been a heavy downpour quite recently and he concluded the slight overhang above him must have given him some shelter, which explained why he wasn't completely soaked. A couple of feet to the other side of him, there had obviously been enough rainfall for water to run off the sodden, clay-like mud of the shallower side of the trench and gather in what would have once been the bed of the trench's erstwhile stream…it gurgled lazily down the path of least resistance, a mere shadow of what this slice through the Earth must have once carried judging by the size and depth of it (a fact for which he was far from ungrateful).

An involuntary shiver ran through his body, as his chilled muscles attempted to warm themselves, causing another jarring pain in his upper leg. Turning the light onto the area he could see his jeans were heavily stained with blood, a considerable amount of blood. Cautious examination revealed that what had clearly, initially, been a significant haemorrhage had now, mercifully, slowed and almost stopped.

At least the reason why he'd been unconscious for so long was now becoming apparent.

Steve had learnt a great deal about his own healing abilities in the last few months, thanks almost entirely to Bruce's persistence when it came to him seeking treatment when injured and, eventually, succeeding in forcing the Captain to give some consideration to his own wellbeing occasionally. Steve had always been too preoccupied to pay much attention to how his body healed, he'd just accepted that (thanks to the serum) it did, but Bruce had observed that his healing actually followed a form of "instinctive" triage; prioritising the most serious and debilitating injuries first. As a result, if his injuries were only minor then he would be almost completely healed in a fraction of the time for that of a normal human being but, where one or more major injuries had occurred, those same minor injuries would heal no quicker than they would for a normal human until the danger was passed: Clearly the priorities here had been the leg wound, any swelling to his brain and, he realised as he shivered again, keeping his core body temperature at a level that would prevent the onset of hypothermia; maintaining his unconscious state would have also helped to slow his blood flow while the serum's properties did their work.

With one question answered, the one about why he'd been there so long, Steve started to focus his rapidly clearing thought processes on the one about how on Earth he got there?

Closer investigation revealed the cause of the leg injury: A telltale hole in his jeans at mid-thigh told him exactly what had happened, he'd been shot! Having experienced this probably more times than was healthy, he was remarkably unperturbed as he continued his examination and unnervingly relieved to find another hole at the back of his jean's leg just above the knee: Entry and exit was always good in his experience; operations to remove bullets (particularly when they'd been healed in) without anaesthetic or analgesia wasn't something he relished reliving anytime soon. Nonetheless, the amount of blood indicated the bullet or cartridge, whatever it was, had at least nicked an artery and possibly, judging by the angle through the leg, grazed the bone as well: Steve knew only too well, from his own knowledge and what Bruce had told him, that he was going to need fluids and nutrition to maintain and accelerate the healing; the serum could only do so much without fuel.

Having ascertained that he was far from 'out of the woods' (both literally and metaphorically), he stared into the blackness, trying to remember: He was in the middle of nowhere….it wasn't a mission….how the hell had he been….?

….and it all came flooding back. He groaned, as much with embarrassment as anything else, as the events of the previous day came back to him.

The bike! All the time and effort Tony had given on that bike; Steve had finally thought they were making some headway in getting along and now he'd loused that up by losing the one bit of common ground they'd managed to establish…..he could already hear the "_Captain Careless_" remarks he doubtlessly deserved…..and his phone….how often had he been told to keep it with him at all times?

What the hell had he been thinking?


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Sorry for the delay in posting this. This did end up becoming a lot longer than I anticipated, not entirely necessary to the story but fun to do.**

**Once again, thanks for the reviews, follows and favourites. Enjoy! **

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Tuesday, 18****th**** September 2012**

**11.14am**

Steve briefly considered stopping at the small diner as he passed it but dismissed that notion in favour of making the most of a few hours of undisturbed freedom and peace.

He grinned slightly as he recalled his sole remaining teammate's almost terse dismissal of his offer of company earlier that morning: The Captain had asked out of dutiful politeness rather than any desire for the man to accept in all truthfulness. Hopeful of an opportunity to both try out the bike's performance and get away from the City for a few hours, he'd been quite appreciative of the fact that Clint's preoccupation with his own plans had meant he hadn't enquired after Steve's – he strongly suspected his idea for the day was so ill-formed it would have sounded stupid enough to put him off doing it if he'd had to say it out loud.

For once, today, he was the "man without a plan" (or at least a plan with a clear objective). He supposed that it was just a break really; a break from what had seemed a relentless existence of learning, adapting, catching up, public appearances and, of course, missions ever since he'd awoken in this new Century: A desire to just spend a little time somewhere that had changed as little as he had in the last 70 years.

He wasn't entirely isolated anyway; he wasn't that misguided or reckless. He had his phone with him, albeit set to mute, and he could easily activate Jarvis on there if he needed help navigating his way back….so that meant he could, effectively, follow Clint's last instructions with impunity and truly 'get lost' in the meantime.

The road he was following had petered off into little more than a dirt track and had got significantly narrower; he hadn't even seen another vehicle for quite some time. He passed a few gated entrances and tracks wide enough to take a car, which he assumed led to some of the isolated (many of them quite luxurious) dwellings that were dotted through this area of dense forest, but no-one was leaving or returning at this time of day. It was refreshing and relaxing just to clear his mind and revel in the feeling of no demands on him to be Captain America for once.

Enjoying the sensation of utter aimlessness he veered off the road when he saw a gap open up in the trees which looked like an occasionally used footpath and was certainly wide enough to take the bike. He slowed a little, wary of damaging the bike, but not overly so, entirely conscious of the fact that this was the kind of terrain this bike was originally built for: Bikes used in wartime rarely got the luxury of smooth tarmac to run on. He carried on, following whatever direction the forest allowed him to travel in, heading in a rough north-westerly direction and towards slightly higher ground.

After some distance, the forest became less dense as the slope became steeper; the going was bumpier now as exposed roots became more prevalent. Steve pulled up and parked the bike, patting it fondly as he slipped the keys into his jeans pocket.

"Your suspension might cope with the rest of the climb…but I'm not sure mine would." He grinned ruefully in response to his own remark, stretching his long legs which ached slightly from holding the bike steady over the uneven ground.

He slipped his jacket off his shoulders and over the seat of the bike, feeling warm from the combination of physical exertion and the growing humidity of the day; the climb to the summit of the ridge ahead of him, possibly quarter of a mile, would warm him still further, he figured, looking up at what had become his objective.

He covered the steep and, for anyone else, awkward climb easily and with a pace and athleticism that he would normally have to temper when in civilian clothes for fear of drawing undue attention. Arriving at his destination he relished several deep lungs full of clean, clear air and admired the glorious view in all directions before finding himself a broad ledge just below the peak of the ridge on the other side to the one he had climbed and settled down to eat, sketch and relax.

His perch sheltered him adequately from the wind and served as something of a sun-trap, he settled back and unpacked some of the food he brought with him for an impromptu picnic. In the distance to his right a lake glinted beyond the trees, his enhanced hearing detected little more than the rustle of the trees. He luxuriated in the relative silence; the 21st Century was so noisy normally, everything seemed to beep or whirr, sounds that those with normal hearing could tune out he heard with constant clarity, even here (in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere) he could still hear the dim and distant drone of traffic if he focussed but, for once, it was far enough away even for him to be able to ignore it.

He'd only ever visited this part of the State once before in his life. He knew it wasn't exactly the same location; he regarded the thousands of acres of woodland interrupted only occasionally by small pockets of "civilisation" knowing he'd never be able to find the exact place having never really known exactly where it was to start with. But this was close enough.

He allowed himself to drift…back to a memory he'd known his trip up here would evoke…

* * *

_**Sunday, 22**__**nd**__** June 1930**_

_**8.32am**_

_The entrance to the orphanage rung with a cacophony that could only have been caused by a couple of dozen over-excited boys; unusually, even the stoic and disciplinarian nuns were smiling indulgently and allowing the high spirits to run relatively unchecked. A local businessman, celebrating and promoting (judging by the local press poised to grab an appropriate photo of happy orphans gratefully being on the receiving end of his largesse) the opening of his new store had donated one of his newly sign-written delivery trucks for the day to take the boys out for a trip to the country. Other stores, keen to get their names associated with the event, had donated food and a variety of treats; a huge cheer greeted the loading of a large wicker basket onto the back of the vehicle – rumour had it that there were cakes and fruit inside, rare luxuries indeed compared to their standard, nutritionally adequate but otherwise lacklustre, fare._

_Steve Rogers, just a few days short of his twelfth birthday but looking more like one of the nine year olds with his diminutive stature and slight build, stood to one side wrapped in an over-sized jacket that had been rescued from donated clothing and swamped his scrawny frame. He'd only just been released from yet another stay in what the orphanage termed the "infirmary" but was really just a quiet, isolated room at the front of the building. The nurse had argued to get him included on the trip on the basis that the fresh country air would be good for his asthma but had also insisted he ride up in the cab as the road dust that would be circulating in the back of the truck would be too much for him: Steve cringed inwardly at the knowledge that, yet again, his health problems were going to create yet another barrier between him and his peers, he briefly caught a nasty look from one of the older boys which told him the fact hadn't gone unnoticed._

_At the far side of the group of milling, shouting boys, Steve caught sight of someone he didn't recognise: A tall, well-built, dark haired boy who stood apart from the group, regarding them curiously as though sizing them all up. He recalled hearing a car pull up out front a couple of nights ago, usually that only happened when yet another orphan was being delivered; Steve guessed the boy must have been the new arrival. Isolated in the infirmary he'd obviously missed the introductions. The boy, as so many of them did at first, seemed ill-at-ease and wary, but was clearly physically imposing enough to avoid the attention of the bullies._

_The slightly flustered but nonetheless unusually friendly (the presence of the press could do wonders for people's demeanour) nuns ushered the happy boys onto the back of the truck and Steve was steered to his allocated place, finding his bony body wedged between two rather large sets of buttocks on the bench seat; he briefly reflected that, if they did have to stop suddenly, he most certainly wasn't going anywhere. He reached inside his over-sized jacket trying to make sure the small wad of paper and pencils the friendly nurse had gifted that morning didn't get too crumpled or the pencils broken in the crush._

_Finally, amidst many cheers and camera flashes, the party set off. Steve reflected that, other than the time he was brought to the orphanage by the police, this was the first time he'd been in a motor vehicle of any kind: It wasn't exactly a pleasant experience, the day was warm and the cab was stiflingly hot, exacerbated by the body heat of two rather portly nuns. He started to feel breathless and a bit nauseous which, fortunately, one of them noticed and opened the door window a little to allow some air to circulate; it was, pretty much, the only time either of them acknowledged his existence for the remainder of the journey. _

_He listened to his fellow orphans' excited yells as they noticed various landmarks and buildings whilst heading out of the city; observed as they gradually quietened down as the novelty of seeing increasingly large open areas of land wore off; and inwardly commiserated with them as they gradually grew increasingly bored when the journey seemed to drag on for what, to them, must have seemed like hours. He shared their gratitude, although for likely different reasons (overheated, uncomfortable and still feeling more than a little sick as he was), when the truck finally pulled off the road into an open area adjacent to an open field and some woodland._

_No time was wasted in getting everyone off the truck and organising the older of the boys to transport the basket, bats and balls and other paraphernalia (including folding wooden chairs for the adults) to what became their makeshift camp area for the day. The younger nuns who'd accompanied the boys in the back of the truck got the rest of them started with some ball games to run off some of their pent up energy. Steve drifted away to the side clutching the enamel cup of water that had been pressed into his hand when it had been noticed how flushed and breathless he'd become and settled down in a sheltered area under a tree, taking out his precious drawing materials and beginning to outline the rolling hills in the distance._

_As he cooled down and his motion sickness subsided, Steve became increasingly focussed on his drawing. The dappled shade of the trees played intriguingly across his sketches and the clean, oxygen-rich air was as beneficial as he'd been led to believe: His tranquillity wasn't to last._

_The nuns, having given orders that no-one was to stray from the area, were now fully focussed on garnering the means to make themselves some tea and were, largely, uninterested in the activities of their charges. One of the bigger boys, in reality only a year or so older than the object of his hostility but almost twice the size, decided that Steve had had quite enough peace for one day. Splitting off from the group, satisfied that their supervisors were no longer bothering to count heads while they were focussed on whether or not their kettle would boil at any point, had skirted round the field and crept up on the diminutive blond absorbed in his drawing._

_Steve almost smelt his antagonist before he heard him - Donoghue was as much a stranger to personal hygiene as he was basic civility and he seemed to take Steve's very existence as a personal insult on a regular basis. His target scrambled to his feet, gathering his precious sketches together as he did so….too late!_

"_So the penguin's little pet's too good to play with the rest of us….gets to hang out here with his sissy scribbling…"_

_Steve didn't bother to argue, if events didn't give Donoghue a reason to pick on him he'd just make one up after all. What worried him more was the distance he was from the main group and the fact his sneering tormentor hadn't come alone, behind him stood one of his acolytes; almost as ugly, certainly more stupid, than the boy he chose to follow: He was in big trouble._

_Small and weak as he was, Steve just didn't have it in him to back down. He knew they wouldn't risk hurting him too badly – that would raise far too many questions – but that didn't mean the next few minutes wouldn't be painful. Even so, he wasn't about to make it easy for them:_

"_You get a great day out, away from chores, and this is the best thing you can come up with to do with it?" He taunted back, slipping the paper back into his inner pocket and parting his feet to balance him for the anticipated and, no doubt, imminent attack. The heel of his back foot detected a raised area of root behind it – could be useful…if only…_

_Donoghue lunged at the smaller boy; Steve, well-accustomed to his complete lack of subtlety, neatly sidestepped him and took brief satisfaction in seeing the larger youth go sprawling over the root in his path: It was a small victory but well worth it even if it was short-lived._

"_Get him!" Donoghue ordered from his prone position, cussing and rubbing his badly banged knee: His momentarily stunned companion approached Steve who, despite the odds, through guile and (sadly) far too many years of being in this position, managed to deliver a painful, if not particularly heavy, stamp to the larger boy's foot which might have bought him enough time to get clear had it not been for the fact that his outsized jacket made for a large target area which the bully grabbed by the collar almost hoisting him off his feet due to his height advantage._

_Out of instinct as much as anything else, Steve pushed his arms upwards and wriggled out of the coat, losing his footing in the process and scrambling away from his attackers along the dry ground: The dust the activity had kicked up surrounded him and he fought down his panic as the familiar feeling of breathlessness started to grow…."not now" he implored his body as he sought to put some distance between himself and the boys and get back to his feet._

_He rose to see the dusty and dishevelled Donoghue grab at the sheaf of papers protruding from the inner pocket of the coat, a nasty, vicious look on his face as he made a great show of holding them as though to rip them to shreds…._

"_Nooo…." Steve yelled, about to launch himself at his precious sketches only to find himself restrained by a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder._

"_Now I'm sure Donoghue here was just going to admire your work," an unfamiliar voice told him reassuringly, "weren't you…?" Steve looked up and to his side to see the tall, dark-haired boy he'd noticed earlier. _

_The stranger let go of the smaller boy and approached the bully who was eyeing him cautiously. "Either that or you were wondering what it would be like to be able to actually hold a pencil?" The derisive tone of the question caught Donoghue out and caused him to pause, trying to come up with some kind of answer. _

_The other boy was easily as tall as the bully and his clothing, of a condition and fit that meant they looked as though they'd actually been bought for him (a rare sight indeed at the orphanage), and well-kept appearance meant he carried himself with a degree of confidence and self-belief that suggested he'd be able to give a good account of himself if Donoghue and his minion tried any of their tricks with him. _

_Steve's attacker looked warily from the smaller boy to the larger but didn't resist when the papers were removed from his grasp; he seemed to be weighing the situation up, two onto (effectively) one were good odds but the newcomer looked as though he'd be able dish it out as well as take it and that could only lead to the kind of damage and injuries that would be too much evidence of fighting for even the nuns to ignore and they had some pretty unpleasant punishments for that kind of behaviour: Donoghue might not be the sharpest tool in the shed but even he knew it wasn't a good idea to tempt fate like that._

"_You wanna watch who you make friends with Barnes…" he eventually snarled._

"_Funny. I thought that's exactly what I was doing." The boy, Barnes, smiled back with an affability that didn't reach his eyes. Donoghue and his friend ambled away, back towards the larger group, sullenly dragging their feet._

_Steve watched the other boy carefully; much as he wanted to take the good deed at face value, three years in the orphanage had taught him that you very rarely got something for nothing. The boy turned back to face him, still holding the sketches and leafing through them idly._

"_You know, these are really good." The boy bent down to pick up Steve's jacket from where it had been dropped and handed both it and the sketches back to him._

"_Th…thanks….," Steve stammered his gratitude, still a little cautious of the boy's motives but conscious of his lack of manners thus far, "….for everything," he added, belatedly. He replaced the sketches carefully inside the jacket and slid the garment back on._

"_No problem." He dug his hand into his pocket. "Glad the big oaf didn't want to fight, it would have been a shame to squash these," he said, retrieving a small bunch of grapes. "I liberated them earlier. Sister Angela seems to have a liking for them so I'm not too sure there'll be any left by the time we get to the food later." He grinned in a mischievous but friendly manner. "Wanna share?"_

_Steve's eyes lit up at the rare treat, technically it wasn't stealing….the grapes had been donated to them after all…_

"_Steve Rogers." He extended his hand the way his mother had taught him to introduce himself._

"_James Buchanan Barnes." The boy replied only slightly less formally but returning the handshake with a reassuring firmness._

* * *

**Tuesday, 18****th**** September 2012**

**Late afternoon**

Steve sat on his ledge smiling down at the familiar face he had sketched; it grinned that same cheeky grin he remembered from all those years ago right back at him. The warmth of the cherished memory gradually gave way to the more habitual chill of grief that he'd never see it again. He thought back to that moment when he'd begun to rebuild his life after losing everything that mattered to him once and set his eyes on the horizon…briefly he wondered how many more times fate was going to demand that of him.

A shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with his train of though and summoned him back to the present. The heat had left the day and the sun was beginning to descend behind the ridge. Above him, dark clouds were beginning to form. He made to check the time before he realised his phone was still in his jacket pocket. It immediately occurred to him how long he must have been there and he began to gather his things, returning them to the backpack.

He'd just stood and pulled the strap over one shoulder when his sharp hearing picked up a familiar sound….a bike revving its engine….his bike! Leaping up the small incline from the ledge, he cleared the ridge in a matter of seconds. Pausing briefly, he zoned in on the sound which was now heading away from him. Figuring he'd do better to head it off rather than attempt to chase, he set off at an oblique angle to the bike's direction of travel.

He covered the ground, dodging trees and powering through the undergrowth, with astonishing speed; he knew the bike would have to travel around to where the old, dried up river disappeared underground, if he could cross earlier he would be able to get to the thief before he made it to the road. An opening in the trees ahead of him said his opportunity to do exactly that was imminent. Steeling himself, he burst through the trees and put everything into a leap to take him across the gouge through the earth.

As he flew through the air, entirely focussed on his desired landing spot and keeping his ear attuned to the sound of his bike, he failed to notice a movement in amongst the trees. The sound of a shotgun cut through everything and a sharp pain tore through his leg…its force caused his body to twist in midair, changing his trajectory and sending him into the high, solid bank of the river. He felt the impact of rocks and roots on his back force the air out of his lungs as gravity took over and his momentum sent him tumbling down towards the base of the incline.

The last thing he was aware of was a blow to the side of his head…and then blackness.


End file.
